


where the sky is black and gold

by lost_decade



Category: Formula E RPF
Genre: Anal Fingering, Angst, Blow Jobs, Come Eating, Complicated Relationships, Dom/sub Undertones, M/M, Mile High Club, Porn with Feelings, Rimming, just the usual sad filth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-12
Updated: 2019-06-12
Packaged: 2020-05-02 03:30:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19191034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lost_decade/pseuds/lost_decade
Summary: "You can have him," Carl murmurs low into André's ear when they take a breath. He can feel his eyes threatening to mist for a moment as he glances at Jean-Éric, still on his knees and looking up at them intensely, his belt now undone and one hand wormed inside his jeans.- Post-Berlin, on the flight to Monaco.





	where the sky is black and gold

**Author's Note:**

> Another one of those things I started writing after a race, this time on the flight home from Berlin, feeling a tad emotional. Obviously I intended to finish it sooner than this but better late than never!

André closes his eyes, head pressed back against the seat rest as the plane skitters along the runway, the beginnings of a headache pulsing at his temples. A day to forget, he decides, opening his eyes briefly to glance at Jean-Éric in the seat opposite. There's that familiar podium glow like an aura surrounding him; something André loves but that also bristles under his skin sometimes. Times like these. What's done is done and he knows better than to dwell on days like this, where everything that could go wrong does. It's behind him already, mostly, as the ground recedes beneath the clouds; yet he can still catch the scent of champagne clinging to the tips of Jev's hair, can imagine it tacky and sweet on the tanned skin of Carl's forearms beside him, a hunger that ticks over in his brain. He's too fucking tired and disappointed to examine the root of that craving, it's all the longing to win a race and something more, a deep raw need that cuts to the core of him.

 

The jet reaches altitude, levelling out into the sunset as they leave Berlin behind. André thinks of his granddad's house, some time or other he'd visited as a small kid and how alien the world of the divided city had been, how exciting and different from his own sleepy corner of Belgium.

He pulls his phone from his jeans, thumbing through to the camera and angling it at Jev, something warm prickling under his skin as he takes in the sight of him stretched out in the luxurious armchair, a protective arm slung around the third-place trophy that rests in the seat beside him. It's the same sort of careful affection as he's seen Jev exhibit around Charlie and the innocent joy of it makes him smile despite his mood, snapping a couple of pictures that he'll upload to his Instagram later.

Carl nudges his arm, gesturing for André to show him the photographs and laughing a little at the almost fucked-out contentment in Jev's expression. Jev, emerging from his micro-nap, catches on and flips him the finger, blinking dazedly at his audience before sliding his sunglasses from their place in his hair down onto his nose.

"Don't post that," he warns, self-consciously dabbing at the corners of his mouth in case he's actually drooled in his sleep. His tone is light though, still tinged with the euphoria of the podium, the addictive need for success. There's a hunger in Jean-Éric too, and André would prefer not to dwell on his own ability to ignite it.

He shifts, looking away from Jean-Éric and his trophy to gaze out at the burnished slope of the sun as it grows lower, thinking of Takako, of some old rock song on the radio in Gordes last week, the gleefully sung acceptance of the chorus turning over in his head on repeat. He fishes out his earphones now and thumbs to it on Spotify just for another kick in the balls that he knows she'd roll her eyes at, smiling at the twist in his chest at the 70s rock progression and the jaunty faux-lightness of the tone. Yeah, there’s something he can identify with in that: love the one you're with.

 

Carl shuts his laptop with a jolt that shakes André awake, unsure of how long he's been dozing for but quickly realising it's only a few minutes. He's been resting his head against Carl's shoulder, the imprint of the shoulder seam of his crisp white shirt now forming a line across André's cheek. Carl smiles at him affectionately, reaching out to rub his thumb over the already race-reddened skin in a way that makes André almost keen into the touch.

"It'll happen," Carl whispers in quick, low French, looking into his eyes with enough intensity that André knows he isn't just talking about the longed-for win. He doesn't like being read by most people and spends a stupid amount of time ensuring it's virtually impossible for anyone to do so, yet with Carl he finds himself not minding all that much; some sort of shared silent agreement of _yes, I know, he's the world and everything in it._

He feels a little reckless after today, veins still buzzing with unchanneled adrenaline as he glances over, and finding Jev's seat empty, angles his face up into Carl's touch, lips parted in an invitation to be kissed.

It's what he needed, he realises quickly as Carl twists in his seat and slides both hands back to cup André's face, angling him the way he wants as he licks into his mouth. They've made out before, once or twice at after-parties late into the messy time of night when all André needed was to be held and made to feel something that no-one else would easily offer. It's familiar and nice, arousing in an uncomplicated way and he finds himself sinking into it, into the firm soothing touch of Carl's fingers in his hair, then splayed against his neck, and is thankful for a moment for the honesty of his relationship with Takako, for the openness of their admissions of the things neither of them can ever give up, the preferences they want and need and love even as a life of not being alone has its own merits too.

Carl reaches for his thigh, tugging him closer so that André is half sprawled over him, instinct taking precedence over sense. It's a private plane but that doesn't mean this is a good idea, yet he finds he doesn't want to stop. Even when Jean-Éric emerges from the back of the plane with a silver-plated champagne bucket, ice clinking against the bottle of G.H.Mumm inside it and three upturned flutes balanced in his other hand, André still finds himself unable to pull away, opening his eyes to take in Jev's shock, the awkwardness of his stance, and then closing them again, moaning softly into Carl's mouth as their tongues curl and fuck against each other.

When they gasp for air André is hard and breathless and Jev is swigging straight from the bottle. His teeth are pressed into the fullness of his bottom lip, his legs splayed wide in the chair as he rubs at the outline of his erection.

André doesn't know how to deal with it, so he doesn't, glancing deferentially at Carl in the hope he'll know what to do with the situation.

"Come here," Carl directs with a beckoning finger, his voice teasing but authoritative enough that Jev clunkily places the bottle back into the bucket and slides forward, lower in his seat until he tips onto his knees on the carpeted floor of the aircraft, eyes dark with arousal and his breath hitching.

"No, bring the bottle."

André looks between them both, confused and curious, turned on by the thrilling certainty that whatever this is, it surely can’t result in anything good.

Jev reaches back and pulls the bottle free, drops of ice water dripping onto his jeans as he hands it to Carl, who raises it to his lips and takes a gulp before wedging it in the gap between André and himself, reaching for him and gripping his chin.

André moans as Carl spits the champagne into his mouth, heady with the implication and the heat of Jev's gaze on them as he swallows it down, letting Carl kiss him again.

"You can have him," Carl murmurs low into André's ear when they take a breath. He can feel his eyes threatening to mist for a moment as he glances at Jean-Éric, still on his knees and looking up at them intensely, his belt now undone and one hand wormed inside his jeans.

 _I can't_ , André thinks; but maybe he can, now while they're up in the sky.

When it comes down to it André isn’t even sure exactly what it is he wants, beyond some easy pleasure that he doesn’t have to think too much about. He finds he doesn’t want to look at Jean-Éric, podium-gleam dimmed a little with the anxiety of what may unfold. It makes him a little too real, a mile away from the racers who’ve bought too deep into their own hype, who André has fallen into bed with far too regrettably often in the past. Jev is different - and André in turn is different around Jev, something more than wanting to fuck but too unthinkable to actually acknowledge; a deeper yearning. He knows what Takako would call it.

As if sensing his thought-spiral, Carl’s hands cup his face again, the kiss softer, slow and reassuring. They’re doing this then, obviously. If they are, how will it be to touch Jev with intent rather than with teasing, to be able to pull and press and mark?

Of course, they should have kept it at just friends from the start, should have kept it light and flirtatious. Yet André is aware of the intent behind his own admission of a year back, offering up his sexuality to Jev as if in honesty rather than invitation, his cards on the table as Jev’s eyes had widened but hadn’t responded with any confessions of his own. André has long accepted there are things he’s better off without, yet still the scent of possibility is stirring. Even if it is only for an hour as Germany melts into Switzerland, into France below. Only for a fleeting journey on an airplane.

Some dark, masochistic part of him wants Jev to fuck him - here, now, where the look in Jev’s eyes is here-not-here, expression full of desire but in a dreamlike daze, champagne dissolving sense like a border crossing slipped through while security sleep. The setting doesn’t fit with the fantasy though, which is all tied up in André’s memories of Mykonos last summer: white sheets and a sultry heat in the air, hours to get lost inside each other. Yet he finds Carl is not an unwelcome catalyst, his presence steadying in a way that means they can all play whatever happens off as a bit of fun, a mild diversion on an otherwise unremarkable flight like so many others they’ve taken this year.

André flinches slightly, drawn out of his head at the pull of Carl’s fingers working open the buttons of his shirt, large hands sliding up his chest with a pleasing intake of breath and then they’re kissing again, deep and languid. He feels, perhaps wrongly, that Carl is eager to move this on, to fit it all in schedule as meticulously as he manages Jev’s life.

Jean-Éric moans low in his throat, skimming his fingertips over André’s stomach just above his waistband as he pulls the bottle out from between them, each sip a renewed excuse, should one be necessary back on the ground. When André looks down he finds Jean-Éric closer, his head resting on Carl’s knee as he continues to rub himself lazily over his underwear, his jeans down to mid-thigh level now. Still André can barely look at him, the promise of him seems unreal and any joke he’d normally make sticks like ice in his throat. Fuck Carl for this. Seriously, fuck him, André thinks even as he considers stopping, even as his brain brutally dismisses the thought the second Jean-Éric’s hand slides lower to rub him over his jeans, tracing the outline of his cock before looking up, big amber eyes wide as they meet André’s, questioning. 

Carl looks between them both, lips curved into a brilliant smile, a gleaming tooth snagged against his bottom lip as he gazes at them with the kind of expression he normally reserves for Jev alone. There’s something inclusive about the way he bestows it upon André now.

“What do you want?” André asks, his eyes on Jev, a game of who can outstare the other. André catches the movement of Jev’s throat as he swallows, unable to suppress a muttered _fuck_ at the sight. It causes Jev to falter, looking at Carl as if asking - for what: permission, direction? André isn’t sure. Carl smiles, licking at André’s neck before bending forward to kiss Jean-Éric, hoisting him up by his shirt. He whispers something in Jev’s ear, too quiet for André to pick up on above the hum of the engines, and then Jev is climbing into André’s lap, knees either side of his thighs on the wide airplane seat. His hands slide into André’s hair, their chests pressed together and then they’re kissing, a kind of bliss beyond any other. _Wanted you so long,_ Jev slurs, or maybe André imagines it. Love drunk. No, not _that_.

He feels suffocated for a moment by Jev’s eagerness, the way he seems to flow lithely around him, his hands at the side of André’s face, his dick rubbing against André’s stomach. He kisses with unconcealed desperation, as if he can’t quite believe this is happening. It leaves André wondering when it tipped over for him, when it turned from being just a joke to something dangerously complicated. André wants to stop and ask him if he even sees it that way at all, to establish some kind of protocol, but before he can speak he finds himself lurching backward, Jean-Éric following him until he’s almost on top of André, sighing against his lips. Carl, André realises after a moment of bewilderment, has pressed the recline button on both their seats and is now lying back beside them, a lewd smile on his face as he drinks them in. 

“Hey,” Jev breathes, resting his forehead against André’s. He looks a little wild, a touch of vulnerability in his gaze. André’s chest feels tight, his cock painfully hard in the confines of his skinny jeans. He slides his hands up beneath Jev’s shirt, calloused palms mapping out the lean muscle of Jean-Éric’s back, fingers gliding up the vertebrae of his spine. André feels hot all over, conscious now of the layers of clothing between them and the claustrophobia of the space they’re in. It feels as if the cabin pressure has gone to their heads, halting all well-learned knowledge of what to do in a situation like this and instead relying simply on Carl’s direction. André nuzzles his nose against Jean-Éric’s, lips brushing over his beard.

“Do you want to fuck me?” Jev offers shyly, refusing to make eye contact but leaving no doubt that the proposition is aimed at André. His teeth find André’s bottom lip, sinking in just enough to sting. André lets his hands roam lower, needy at the thought of it even as if he was honest what he really wants is Jev pushing him into a mattress and twisting his hands behind his back. Not that it would be something he’d want Carl to witness anyway.

“Always.”

He grimaces, not meaning to have admitted quite so much with a single word, but Jev is too high on champagne and yearning to take much stock and then they’re licking filthily into each other’s mouths again, André pushing his hands beneath Jev’s briefs to grab at his ass as Jev squirms in his arms above him.

Neither of them is aware of Carl moving and André startles when he feels Carl’s fingers against his own, the two of them parting Jev's arse cheeks together. André can hear his heart hammering in his chest when Carl licks over his fingers, sensing where this is going even as he knows Jev has no idea, unable to see behind himself or to focus on anything other than kissing André and trying to rub his dick up between their bodies in search of friction. How long until they land, André wonders. How long until they have to sit back down in their seats like nothing happened.

Jev’s arms are braced on the back of the seat either side of André’s head, the length of him making the logistics too messy and uncoordinated, until Jev gives up on trying to kiss him, the two of them sharing hot breaths instead as Jev leans back with a whine when Carl swipes his tongue over his asshole. Carl’s beard is scratchy against André’s fingers where he’s holding Jev open, his own cock throbbing anew at the strangled sounds Jev is making and the sudden jealous desire to be in Carl’s position. Jean-Éric trembles, shivering as his cock drags against André’s stomach, leaving a trail of wetness.

Overwhelmed, André closes his eyes, only to find that everything feels a little more sordid that way as the sounds of Jev moaning softly are drowned out by the obscene noise of Carl eating him out. Jev murmurs his name, whining in frustration when Carl pulls away to rummage in his bag.

With a sudden movement Jev climbs off him, leaving André feeling exposed, hard and half undressed lying back in the seat. He watches as Jean-Éric stretches out, ridding himself of the rest of his clothes in what would almost be a striptease if he knew the effect it had on people. They’ve seen each other naked plenty of times, but never like this, never with Jev hard and on display, his body there for the taking.

André exhales shakily, undoing his own jeans and sliding out of them but leaving his shirt and underwear on, unwilling to expose himself fully even though it’s a shyness he’s not used to, has never felt self-conscious with other lovers before. He reaches for the champagne, taking a few rapid gulps to steady himself. He can feel Carl's eyes on him and finds himself wondering how much he's giving away here, what it is that Carl sees in André's gaze when he steals a glance at Jean-Eric.

Despite the erection tenting the front of Carl's slacks he is still dressed, an air of respectability about him that bleeds André's control away slowly, as if this is all part of some grander plan.

Jean-Éric stretches, stroking his cock as he looks between them both, waiting for some further instruction that André is too dazed to give. His lips twitch with the urge to pour the champagne down Jev's chest, to lick it from the hollow of his collarbone, to kiss him until they're both light-headed and craving oxygen. Carl grins lasciviously, standing up to kiss Jean-Éric, sliding a hand around his neck and using the light grip to push him back onto the reclined seat where Carl himself had been sitting, kneeling on the floor and gripping Jev's thighs as he pulls him to the very edge of the chair.

André allows himself to be directed by Carl until the two of them are on the floor together side by side, one of Jev's legs resting over his shoulder as Carl slathers lube onto André's fingers, guiding his shaky hands to press into the heat of Jev's body.

"It's okay," Carl reassures when Jean-Éric moans at the intrusion. Carl's eyes are on André though, their heads pressed together as Carl eases a finger into Jean-Eric alongside André's. The intimacy of it feels too much, his brain scrabbling to try and memorise each of the sounds Jev is making, save them for a time when he's alone with nothing but his hand and a fantasy. _Someone to watch the sunrise with,_ James had said to him when André had joked about Tess finally being the one to tie him down. He has Takako for that, for affection and banishing loneliness. Sometimes it's enough.

 Carl, as if sensing André's discomfort and the turbulence of his internal discourse, tilts his head for a reassuring kiss, letting his finger stroke against André's in the heat of Jean-Eric's body, reassuring as their tongues slide wetly together. He runs the fingers of his free hand through André's hair, dipping beneath the collar of his open shirt to rub over his neck and chest. André understands what he's being offered and still it doesn't seem like enough. He doesn't really know what would be.

"Have him," Carl whispers, low enough that Jev either doesn't hear or refuses to acknowledge the lack of control he currently has over his own body.

André curls his finger, finding Jev's prostate and glancing up the length of his body, fascinated at the shuddering, moaning reaction and the way Jev's flushed cock leaks more precome over his stomach. He finds that he wants Jev like this all the time: it’s a lamentable feeling.

Carl slides his finger free, pressing it into André's mouth in a way that makes him close his eyes in shame.

I can't fucking have him, André thinks. Not properly. It's easy to press his face against the inside of Jev's thigh though, to suck and bite at the flesh until it reddens, even as he's not sure if this is allowed. Carl's fingers are in his hair again as he shifts a little, leaning up to mouth along the length of Jev's cock, tugging André up by his hair so the two of them are licking at his cock together, their tongues meeting in a messy kiss around the head.

Jev is murmuring a steady stream of filth, one hand gripping the arm-rest and the other fisting into the material of Carl's shirt. It's easier for André to get lost in it with Carl beside him, the two of them going back to fingering Jev more roughly now as they share kisses musky and slick with his precome. They're too uncoordinated and in too cramped a space to suck him off together properly but when Carl dips his head to lick over Jev's balls, André uses the opportunity to suck on the head of his cock, his tongue teasing more fluid from the tip. He feels a hand on his face and thinks for a second it's Carl, but the touch is softer, more tentative and he realises it's Jean-Éric mapping his hollowed cheeks. The touch sparks the need for possession, and André is only dimly aware of Carl sliding his finger free and shifting away.

"We land soon," Carl prompts and oh of course, there was never going to be enough time to lay Jev out and learn his body the way André should, the way he would if they were in Gordes and all of Jev's trophies were lined up beside his own.

He sets his mind to it then, flowing into the familiarity of giving head even as the rest of the scenario is so wildly off balance. Jev's hands roam over his face, tangling in his hair as he curses, biting back moans as the plane shudders through the clouds. God, the taste of him. The fine tremors of his body as André drives his fingers in deeper, curling and probing, making him clench and ruining whatever future sex André might have with anyone else because it won't be _this._

Carl's hand is a steady pressure at the back of André's neck, guiding his movements; the architect creating a beautiful space for men to destroy themselves in.

André's eyes are watering. 

A strangled sob and Jev is digging his fingers into André's arm, the heat of his spunk thick at the back of André's throat. Carl pulls him away before he's ready, gripping his chin and kissing him deeply, chasing the taste of Jean-Eric as he slides his hand down André's stomach and into his boxer-briefs without further preamble, pulling them down to close long fingers around his cock and jerking him firmly.

André realises he isn't sure he wants Jean-Éric to see him come. He feels exposed, unsteady as he pulls back and glances at Jev lying spent and debauched in the chair, biting his lip as he drinks them in. His teeth are gleaming in the sun stream of early evening, his cock spent against his stomach, an exquisite work of art.

Turning away, André buries his face against Carl's shoulder, biting at the collar of his shirt. He thinks of this morning, of how when he woke alone in his hotel room the only thoughts in his head had been of winning a race. Carl is murmuring encouragement though, jerking him hard and skilfully enough to make him let go of everything except the pleasure coursing through him, the building heat and tension in his body that tightens until he's gasping Jev's name as he comes.

Carl pulls back, kissing him softly and resting their foreheads together for a moment, the touch soothing, reassurance without words. He watches then, orgasm-dazed, as Carl raises his fingers to his lips and licks them clean before trailing down André's body again to gather some of the cooling mess on his stomach, holding out his hand to a wide-eyed Jean-Éric.

Jev can't conceal his eagerness, sitting up and leaning towards Carl, open-mouthed. The huff of frustration when Carl snaps his hand away teasingly makes André smile, a rush of affection that catches him off guard. Carl laughs, repeating the motion before giving in and feeding his fingers into Jev's mouth, letting him suck them clean.

André can't tear his eyes away now that it’s over. He finds he wants to touch, to hold, press his body against the length of Jean-Éric's, to sleep and wake and repeat. But then Carl is saying something about landing, business-like as he dips his head to clean up the rest of André's spunk, licking over the quivering muscles of his stomach.

 

"I'll take care of it later," Carl dismisses when they're dressed and back in their seats in response to André's realisation he's the only one of them not to orgasm.

He nods mutely, allowing Carl to tangle their fingers together, finding the touch welcome, necessary to keep him anchored in the present, in reality.

"So I guess you can say you're a member of the mile high club now," André jokes, meeting Jean-Éric's eyes briefly.

André's voice sounds wrong to his own ears but Jev's laugh is sweet and dirty. He brings his index finger to his lips, biting on it gently, swirling his tongue over the pad as he looks André up and down; long hinted at attraction unconcealed to show the depth of his desire. It makes André's breath catch, makes him squeeze Carl's hand a little harder.

 

He turns away from them then, resting his head against the perspex of the window. The Cote d'Azur glitters in the evening sun, yachts dotting the ocean growing closer with the descent, the Promenade des Anglais stretching out along the shore. In another hour or two they'll be on one of the boats further up the coastline, the endless possibilities of a night in Monaco opening up before them.

André has a sinking feeling he's going to do something he might regret.

  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> The song referenced is Love the One You're With by Stephen Stills.


End file.
